In defence of Millwall fans

It kicked off a bit at Wembley last Saturday evening, during the semi-final of the FA Cup between Millwall, of south-east London, and Wigan, of somewhere in the north-west of England. A gentleman sitting a couple of rows behind me requested of a chap standing in the gangway that he perhaps ought to sit down. ‘Fucking sit dahn you fucking mug,’ was the manner in which he couched his entreaty, and when he repeated his injunction the man in the gangway took vivid exception and replied thus: ‘I’m going to fuck you.’

This was not, as you might imagine, a statement of brusque and compelling romantic intent, but a harbinger for what followed — a windmilling fist directed at the man’s head. Fittingly enough, the author of The Critique of Pure Reason was then invoked several times by the two combatants while their friends tried to prevent a proper fight, with shouts of ‘leave it ahhhht, vere’s kiddies ’ere, innit’. The younger of the two men then fell downwards and knocked my spectacles from my nose and slightly tore a corner of the Guardian prize crossword, which I had been saving for half-time. The kiddies — my two sons — were howling with laughter.

This was the first violence I’ve seen while watching my team, Millwall, for decades, and as violence goes, it was a few yards short of the full Tarantino. I should have seen some violence at Stoke in 1992 when a group of ten or 12 of us were walking back to the station after the game and, as we turned a corner, were confronted by Stoke’s ‘firm’, at least 30 strong North Midlands untermensch with tattoos and no reason to live. ‘Stand together: remember we fear no foe where e’er we go,’ the self-appointed leader of our cadre advised, but not quickly enough to stop me from legging it at the speed of light.